Girls, be good to these spirits   Of music and poetry,   And lift the lyre so clear and sweet   They need with you (?)      But as for me, this body,   Which is now so arthritic:   I cannot play,   I Can barely even hold the instrument,      And oh,   The song grows heavy with the body      Some gloomy poems   Came from these thoughts   And useless,   We are all born to lose life,   Like we lose our youth      And oh,   The song grows heavy with the body.      And so I stepped in quite clearly   From my hiding place   To then suspect    That she would grow old and grey   And he despaired in his mortal way and said      Oh,   The song grows heavy with the body.